The women crowded around the crew room’s windows to catch a first glimpse of the new arrivals trooping after the squadron leader: the experienced pilots - the fighting pilots - who were there to take up No. 641 squadron’s combat responsibilities.
‘Oh gawd’ someone cried in a not very convincing parody of a cockney char she had once employed ‘they look like debutantes!’. The accent may have been wide of the mark but the description was not. While the women inside were dressed in a mishmash of civilian and service issue clothing, and all wore slacks the squadron’s three latest additions wore immaculate WAAF uniforms, neatly starched white shirts under a blue uniform tunic with matching knee-length skirts over grey woollen stockings. Even their issue gasmask cases were carried at the officially prescribed angle, barely moving as they picked their way through the airfield’s many puddles.
‘The one at the back’s a doll’ said another and all eyes were drawn to the diminutive figure trailing behind the group. She looked out of place in uniform with her tight blonde curls, a slight moue playing over her too pretty face and looked for all the world like Shirley Temple had raided the quartermasters and would suddenly break into a tap dance at any moment.
On one thing they were all agreed, there was no way they could be men.
Angels Without Wings
Mac felt a surge of pity for the three young men waiting for their transport to arrive. No pilot could resist the temptation to volunteer for special duties, for a greater share of glory and now they had to come to terms with the outcome Special duty yes, plenty of flying that much had been true but the secret costs were very high. They’ll bear up thought Mac they’ll have to there’s no going back for them now.
All three were difficult tell apart, same age more or less, same height (the physical profile after all had been the main prerequisite for the posting) and with the self-possession, or élan, the RAF worked so hard to imbue in its pilots (though understandably the latter was temporarily subdued in this company). If Mac had to pick out one characteristic to identify each man it would be from the service caps resting in their laps.
The slightly scuffed and deliberately creased cap belonged to Flying-officer Anthony Carstairs, one of the few surviving fighter pilots from the pre-war Auxiliary Air Force. Most of his comrades in the University Squadrons were littering the fields of South East England, or perhaps worse fighting their way back to a semblance of health in hospital. Carstairs had missed the greater part of the slaughter after breaking his legs in a motorcycle accident… in the officers’ mess at the end of July. Such frivolity had largely disappeared in the bloody months of August and September 1940.
In the next chair the owner of the badly battered cap, worn at the seams and almost crushed out of shape was Flight-Lieutenant Peter Watson, at twenty three the old man of the group. By rights he should not have been there, an officer of his experience was too valuable to fritter away but he had fitted the physical profile perfectly and it was felt he would steady the younger fellows. While service caps were routinely disrespected by new pilots eager to seem like old hands Watson’s creases had accumulated while flying Blenheims, first over France, then the Channel and latterly at night to intercept bombers they were barely able to catch.
The most pristine cap (though it was showing early signs of abuse) belonged to Pilot-Officer John Crabtree a nineteen year old, plucked straight from an operational training unit. Eager to find the quickest way to get at the enemy he perhaps most of all was ruing his decision to volunteer, a week or so would have seen him in squadron service, though perhaps he sensed that a pilot of his ability could have been held at the OTU or transferred to a basic training squadron as an instructor.
All three would no doubt perform admirably in their new task even though they might fail at first to see how it could be more valuable than the job they had trained for. They had a few minutes left to ponder their decision, what the future might hold while Aircraftswoman Penning brought the car around to take them away; Mac used these minutes to imagine how they would look in skirts.
‘Laydeez! Laydeez!’ Madame D’Hubert appeared increasingly agitated ‘must I remind you zat you are not on ze parade ground. Pay attenti-on to your deportement pliss’. Amanda, Patricia and Jessica grinned at each other, after six weeks they knew Madame’s rages were seldom meant and the movements which she had so patiently taught them had become almost second nature.
Despite throwing in the odd mistake for entertainment’s sake they knew the ancient matron was far kindlier than she let on, and had been a tower of strength in the early days while they adapted to the change of uniform. Now completely at ease they sashayed around the room as Madame directed. Their clothes were somewhat at odds with the finishing school elegance with which they moved, the heavy woollen garments often seemed to be fighting back at such overt displays of femininity and the substitutions Madame had insisted upon — grey woollen stockings had been replaced with silk, and the flat service issue shoes with heeled pumps so that they might better learn to move as women. In fact only one thing continued to upset them — they had as yet not been allowed to sew their wings to their tunics.
If Madame D’Hubert was an endearing, elderly aunt then Miss Goldring was their confidante, even conspirator. It was her task to teach the three how to dress, look after their hair (fabulously expensive pieces from London’s finest maker they were told) and how to discreetly apply those indispensable touches of femininity at odds with uniform regulations.
Miss Goldring’s archenemy was Flight-Sergeant Morris, a veritable battleaxe of a WAAF who had been installed to ensure the RAF’s highest standards were maintained. It became a game to see who could carry off the most contraband items under the statuesque Flight-Sergeant’s beady eye, a game which was inevitably won by Jessica Crabtree. Displaying a bravery almost equal to that which would carry her into battle Jess would rouge her lips or dab a little scent behind her ears and brazenly flaunt herself before Sergeant Morris. Needless to say she was often caught and dragged by her ear to the washroom for a sturdy application of carbolic soap.
Not that it put her off at all, of the three Jess was the most convincingly feminine both in appearance and movement, her only failing was her Yorkshire accent — a thorn in Dr Higgins’ side from their very first session.
A woman who delighted in the airs of a bluestocking, and armed with a rapier tongue that could cut even Sergeant Morris to the quick Honoria Higgins had taken charge of the trio’s vocal training. A public school education had given Pat and Amanda an accent that needed only minor modifications in pitch and phrasing to pass easily as a woman’s but grammar school had failed Jess in this respect. While nowhere near as broad as the doctor intimated her accent stubbornly refused to subside no matter how long the pair practiced into the small hours.
For all her fierce aspect however Honoria was delighted with Jess, at last she had a project to rival her father’s greatest feats and how she would enjoy telling him of her success… after the war of course. Their breakthrough moment occurred as the clock was striking midnight when Jess, broken down by hours of incessant exercises, wrestled her flat, drawling vowels into the open clipped tones the doctor demanded. In the flush of success Honoria whisked Jess to her feet, waltzed around the room and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her pupil’s lips. It won’t do she told herself while straightening her hair no matter how irresistible she is and despatched the bemused Jess to bed.
Two months had gone by before their instructors had pronounced them ready for the world’s attentions, and while all three had become firm friends in the face of adversity they had not yet fully abandoned the insularity that maintained a strict reserve between men, even men who appeared to be women to all but the most discerning eye. It had been a long journey however and the walls were beginning to crumble, they did not speak to each other but did exchange looks from time to time. Otherwise they sat in silence lost to their thoughts and innermost feelings.
Amanda crossed her legs (in the approved manner) almost regretting the loss of the silk stockings now consigned with her other meagre female possessions to the small card suitcase at her feet. The months of training had imposed new preoccupations and she struggled to bring to mind the faces of lost friends, no matter how hard she tried. What would they think of Anthony Carstairs now she wondered (it had become increasingly difficult to think of herself as anything other than ‘herself’), would they laugh, or pour scorn on someone who had escaped by dressing up as a woman? No matter what they thought Flying-Officer Carstairs was determined to fulfil her duty to the very best of her abilities, no whatever would be demanded of her. Still she had to fight back the desire to bite her nails, Miss Goldring would never forgive it
Flight-Lieutenant Watson had no difficulty remembering the dead, their names, their faces, their last words, she had pulled too many from wrecked aircraft, held them as they slipped away in her arms for anything to erase the memories. A new routine however had helped dim them somewhat, there was less time to dwell on them when she had to pay constant attention to her appearance, her walk and the way she spoke. It also helped that the posting was a Hurricane squadron; she had not flown a single engine aeroplane since the biplane Hawker Harts of her first squadron. This time death would come no closer than the range of the Hurricane’s guns, and should the worst happen she would die alone burdening no one with memories of her death. A slightly bittersweet smile formed on her lips as she absently straightened the hem of her skirt over her knees.
Jessica Crabtree was having difficulty thinking of anything except the way her new silk underwear felt against her skin. It had been the gift pressed on her by a flushed Dr Higgins to ‘remember her by’ and who had then proceeded to kiss the young pilot with a passion that quite belied her stern appearance. It was enough to turn a girl’s head, especially one who had never been so well kissed before. Jess may not have had to endure the all-male society of boarding school but a boys’ grammar school presented almost as few opportunities for romantic adventure (perhaps even less). She had at last come to an understanding of why she had envied the boys who took the female roles in school plays, an envy she could not have named before assuming a female identity. It worried her at times, were the others going through similar feelings, was she a… she did not want to use that ugly expression. Still Dr Higgins’ gift felt glorious and she hoped to have the opportunity to admire herself in it soon (and indulge in a little of what her old headmaster had termed ‘self-abuse’).
‘Attention!’ Flight-Sergeant Morris’ stentorian bark brought them all out of their reverie and to their as Flight-Lieutenant MacDiarmid entered the room. Mac had not seen his three ‘girls’ for a few weeks and was amazed at their progress. Standing ramrod straight and as impressively stiff as guardsmen (he had not been privy to their underwear requirements and knew nothing of the draconically boned foundations each had to wear), but they had an undeniably feminine appearance. That was an understatement they looked like women and the little minx on the end had winked at him… John Crabtree is not a minx he had to remind himself. Up until that moment he had not truly believed that they could pull it off, even as he had draughted the plans and selected the pilots he thought that they would get at best limited success. In that moment however he could not see anything getting in their way.
Fallen Angel
Kate had a crush on her flight-leader, a silly, schoolgirl crush that made her blush every time that Patricia entered a room. The first week at Helton Hall had had a distinctly new term feel for the women of 641 with new uniforms to match their temporary WAAF commissions, and thrown together with a group where few knew any one else. As the male officers restricted themselves to a small lodge in the grounds they had settled the Hall in a state approaching chaos, the initial free for all over room selection had resulted in the older women queening it over the younger ones, whose resentment was constantly bubbling up in petty squabbles. Anarchy reigned until the trim, wasp waited flight-lieutenant Watson arrived and set at once establishing military order.
Life until then had not been so different for Kate from her time as a ferry pilot, the food was better and she dressed pretty much as she liked. The room she shared with another of the girls had already become a haven of sloth for both of them. Pat had appointed WAAF orderlies to clean their quarters while making it absolutely clear that this was not a licence to live like pigs, late nights and lazy mornings were also banished and order brought to the mess. She managed to do this with a minimum of fuss and very little rebellion from the ranks until she had insisted that slacks were only to be worn at the airfield and proper uniform at all other times. For many of the pilots who had spent years avoiding skirts this was an imposition too far, voices were raised, and conspiracies hatched.
Through it all Pat had retained an air of calm, talking to all the pilots individually and only when this had failed to bring round the most recalcitrant did she call on squadron-leader Trent to intervene. It had left a little bitterness in the mess, with several girls choosing to spend as much time at the field as they could get away with; which may have been what the flight-lieutenant had been trying to achieve.
There was however a deeper resentment that could have crippled all Pat’s efforts. Kate like all the others had been incredibly excited to join an all female fighting squadron, to be given a chance to do more for the war effort than ferry planes from factory to depot and the announcement that in reality the fighting would still be done by male pilots was a crushing disappointment. After the announcement that the newcomers would be disguised as women she and her room mate had speculated wildly about what sort of men would allow this indignity to be visited on them, and giggled themselves breathless at the prospect of three effeminate female impersonators mincing about the station. It had been rather a shock when the newcomers arrived, they might have been somewhat prissy, slightly old fashioned in behaviour but the realisation of the effort it must have taken to appear so natural made a deep impression on almost all of them.
So far it had been Patricia that had the most to do with the women pilots, the other two appeared in the mess for meals but largely kept themselves apart from the rest of the squadron. Kate did not doubt that she was not the only one who felt relieved that flying-officer Crabtree stayed away, no woman would be comfortable with a pretty creature around, even moreso when they knew that pout belonged to a man. Pat was eager to tap Kate’s knowledge of the Hurricane as she had probably flown more hours in them than anyone in Helton. Even at close quarters it was hard to believe the neat young woman, with the softly curled brown hair was a man, everything about her was so feminine, almost unbelievably feminine. The only clues about her true gender were the ribbon on her breast, which with the attention to these things Kate knew to be for a DFC and occasionally she caught something in Patricia’s eyes, a distance, and a sadness that was slightly at odds with her manner. It would be very easy to fall in love with someone like that Kate thought if only she was…
There had been a few smirks when Pat had emerged in slacks that morning but she had to admit that flying in the regulation skirt was impractical. It was the first time that she had worn trousers since the day Mac had revealed the nature of the assignment, and while a few weeks ago she might have welcomed the chance to adopt more masculine clothing. Madam D’Hubert’s training regime had been so efficient that she regretted the loss of freedom a skirt gave. She quickly banished the thought as she set off for the airfield, which was quite literally a field in the grounds that had been hurriedly converted to a landing strip, and furnished with an improvised tower, hangars and huts for the other ranks.
Kate Walton hung over the cockpit combing giving Pat a few last pointers on the Hurricane’s controls, and how the aircraft handled. She was a sweet girl, a typically blonde and cream skinned English rose whose enthusiasm seemed endless, and Pat thought a little guiltily, relentless. Still she was glad of the advice, it had been three years since she had flown a single-engined aeroplane and the Hart had been a relatively sedate two-seat light-bomber not a high speed, single-seat fighter.
‘Good luck’ said Kate giving her a quick peck on the cheek and dropped off the aeroplane, ducking away from the wing’s leading edge. Pat started the aircraft down the field wondering at the noise and the power in her hands, the Blenheim’s engines were not all that much quieter than the Merlin but they had the advantage of being further away from the cockpit. Buffeted by the rough airstrip and shaken by engine vibration she gently lifted the Hurricane into the air retracting the undercarriage in the slow climb over Helton. For the first time in months she experienced the utter joy that had drawn Peter to the RAF, the thrill he had first experienced as a young boy tucked into the rear cockpit of a barnstormer’s Avro.
Officially this was meant to be a test flight of the squadron’s sole serviceable Hurricane; there had been some jealous glances from the earthbound when she had taken the flight upon herself. Selfishly perhaps but Pat felt after months away from flying she needed to blow away the cobwebs and climbed to 5000 feet plotting a course to take her over Lacksford.
The small market town drifted into view a huddle of buildings surrounding the medieval church and market square. Its thin ring of anti-aircraft defences were a hideous imposition on this traditional English scene but a very necessary one while the Luftwaffe still presented a threat. They seldom came by day now of course, that door had been closed to them in the hectic autumn months when the hard pressed RAF had risen to meet huge fleets of German aircraft, but they raided nightly now and while Lacksford had not suffered greatly at their hands it was still within range of French based aircraft. Not that it was a likely target, there was no industry here to speak of and the railway station lay on a sleepy branchline far removed from the main. Quite why they needed nightfighter cover had not been explained to 641 but when they had the aircraft they would mount cat’s eye patrols over the town’s few searchlight batteries, probably keeping as many people awake as their presence reassured.
A summer spent scouring the channel for enemy shipping had improved Pat’s already keen eye and something tugged at her attention on the ground two or three miles east of Lacksford. Giving the town’s handful of barrage balloons a wide berth she reduced altitude to investigate. The Hurricane’s approach had sparked a flurry of activity in a large field, with tiny unseen figures hauling away at covers and hastily throwing up camouflage netting. Too late Pat thought whatever they’re doing down there they don’t want anyone to see and a little piqued turned the Hurricane’s nose around and headed back to Helton.
Her corselette was achieving the impossible, becoming even more uncomfortable as its bones dug into hers no matter how she tried to arrange herself. She almost missed the change in engine note and turned quickly to the control panel to find out what was happening. Its dials gave few clues other than a slight rise in engine temperature which she had little time to analyse before it sputtered out of life the propeller lazily windmilling in the slipstream. Peter has been in far worse scrapes she told herself trying not to add that he had never had to contend with corsetry cutting him in half at the same time. She calmly looked over the wing for somewhere to put down and was met by an unending vista of ploughed winter fields each no doubt as treacherous as any other. Pat thought briefly of baling out, but had visions of trigger happy home-guardsmen filled with stories of parachutists disguised as nuns. A small field came into view sparsely grassed hopefully it had been left fallow long enough for the soil to harden.
Pat had dropped to the ground beside the wrecked plane and was removing her flying helmet before she noticed the policeman rushing towards her pushing his bicycle over the rough pasture. ‘Christ’ she muttered ‘I hope this wig’s as fixed on as Miss Goldring said it would be’. Even from thirty yards she could see the look of surprise on the constable’s face as her hair fell to her shoulders but no farther.
Although had become accustomed to the sight of wounded men in service and in the streets of home she found it very difficult to look at squadron-leader Trent’s face. He had been famously handsome before the war, one of Britain’s most popular leading men, no great actor perhaps but his rugged good looks, easy aristocratic charm and tall, athletic build had ensured him a place in the pantheon of homegrown screen stars. The glamour of the Auxiliary Air Force had been the icing on the cake for the thousands, if not millions, of women who swooned in their cinema seats at every film he featured in. During the Battle of Britain he had increased his reputation further the press eager to report the latest victories of the one ace they had ready access to (the RAF guarded its heroes’ identities well seldom releasing the names of ‘star pilots’).
Michael Trent had however slipped from the front pages these past few months, shunning publicity and with very good cause. He had walked away from a crash at the battle’s height otherwise uninjured but with a vicious facial wound that had badly broken his nose and left a livid scar from his right temple to his left jaw. ‘It’ll be pirates and henchmen for me from now on’ he had joked when his three new pilots arrived in his office. It was a line he had used many times
since August, a few jokey words for the ill at ease.
Pat seldom felt at ease around him. Peter had never had a problem with his lack of height, if anything his small stature had made him even more determined to prove himself, but Pat was very conscious of the difference in their size, it added to the vulnerability wearing women’s clothing made her feel.
The two of them sat facing each other in a small study Mike had taken as his office off the airfield. The walls were lined with empty bookcases, the Hall’s owners had removed much of the estate’s furnishings when it was commandeered, but had left two large leather armchairs which were obviously too much trouble to manoeuvre through the lodge’s narrow doors. Pat could comfortably sit in one without any part of her body touching the chair’s arms, and her legs even dangled an inch or so from the floor in a way she hadn’t experienced since the nursery.
‘We need more planes’ she said inching forward ‘those we have are relics which I doubt will ever fly again and everyone’s getting impatient stuck on the ground’. Mike nodded he had his own problems with Pat. When Mac had outlined his idea of men dressed as WAAF officers Mike had never thought the ruse would work half as well as it did. He had to remind himself constantly that Pat was not a woman.
‘We’re working on it Watson’ he could not bring himself to call her Patricia, it was simply too strange ‘there is something else we need to talk about’. His expression became a shade more serious. Not too much he hoped but with his featured rearranged as they were he could never be sure without looking in a mirror. ‘It’s Carstairs and Crabtree’ he continued ‘they’re hardly ever to be found with the rest of the squadron. Carstairs it seems seldom leaves his room except to eat and Lord alone knows where the other one goes.’
Mike had not meant that to sound as harsh as it had, he paused softening his voice ‘You’re senior Watson; you have a responsibility to your flight’.
Pat looked at the floor trying to compose herself. She had been reprimanded by far less considerate commanders; why it should it affect her so now she did not know. ‘Sorry Sir’ she started ‘I’ve had a lot on my plate with the…’
‘Nonsense’ Mike interrupted ‘you’re first responsibility is to your subordinates, there are two other flight leaders to share the load’. What was wrong now, Pat had her face in her hands and her shoulders had just begun to heave. Was he crying, the man who had flown deathly slow bombers over Maastricht, through shellfire and Messerschmitts? Mike leaned forward to look closer. There were definitely tears, and the small figure sat opposite him suddenly became impossible to think of as a man’
‘Patricia’ Mike said softly reaching out to touch her shoulder ‘this must be very hard for you; it’s not an acting role I would relish…’
‘It’s not that’ she said her lips trembling badly ‘you don’t understand. I was supposed to be alone, no one to worry about…’ Words tumbled from her, terrible words of fire and death, the longing to escape their screams, to be free of everyone’s pain but her own. Pat remembered the day Peter had broken his arm when he was five, how his father ordinarily stern had comforted the little boy, wiping away his tears… Was that why she was saying these things? Colour started rising in her cheeks, she felt so small, so ashamed but the tears wouldn’t stop.
Michael Trent was too much the gentleman to be unmoved by woman’s tears, a courtesy that ignored the fact that this was not a woman. He slid from his chair, squatting at Pat’s side an arm around her shoulder. In the normal course of things he would offer comforting platitudes, this was by no means normal. Pat’s words had touched a sadness that he had himself repressed, the guilt of surviving when so many had not, and he began to tell her how completely he understood, about the replacement pilots whose names he had never learned, about the gut wrenching terror of dogfighting and the shame of survival. Tears came unbidden, as they could never come in other circumstances. He pressed his forehead against hers, her sobbing breath warm on his face.
Pat pulled her hand from her face, and looked directly into his grey eyes. She had never known as deep an intimacy with anyone, never shared so much of herself. Without thinking she crossed one last barrier and pressed her lips to his, sealing a connection between two people who had been hurt in so many, similar ways.
Lonely Angel
Reverend Brown threaded his way through the veranda’s jumbled tables and wheelchairs pausing only briefly to acknowledge the patients’ greetings with a brief nod or smile. Everyone was fairly chipper considering their wounds, but it was a fine Indian summer morning with the trees of the hospital grounds only beginning their autumnal turn. He would spend more time with the more seriously injured when he returned though he did not think that he had anything to offer those in physical pain, his concern was the soul and one young man here was especially troubled try though he might to hide it.
He found Anthony Carstairs at the balustrade, smoking and staring out over the hospital’s extensive lawns. One of his hands rested on the rail as if to steady himself a habit only now as the young pilot’s broken legs had fully healed. The clergyman coughed quietly wondering on what thoughts he was intruding.
‘Morning Anthony’ he said ‘Matron tells me that you’re to leave us today’.
‘What?’ the young man turned his face hovering between a blank expression and a frown, ‘oh it’s you Padre… err yes I am
‘Time for one last game?’ the older man said tapping the wooden box tucked under one arm. Anthony smiled and pulled aside a chair at a nearby table.
Reverend Brown pursed his lips his finger almost skimming the top of his chessmen. ‘I think you’ve got me’ he said with a smile ‘I should never have loaned you that book… are you returning to your old squadron?’
‘No I’m being posted’ Anthony replied ‘don’t know where yet all very hush-hush…’ In the two months the clergyman had known him Anthony Carstairs had never looked so happy.
Mac opened another letter. Censoring mail was no more tedious than most of an adjutant’s official duties if you put aside the constant repetition, the vague phrases used to reassure family when the writers were under strict orders not to reveal their location or what they were doing. So far he had barely had to amend anything but no doubt that would change as time passed and the secrecy played more heavily on everyone. However the knock at the door was a welcome interruption. ‘Come’ he called.
‘Oh hello Sir’ Amanda Carstairs smiled from the doorway. ‘Do you have a minute?’
‘For you flying-officer always’ Mac said. Try as he might Mac could not help treating any of the three latest arrivals as women, even though he had known them as men. Their transformation was remarkable, miraculous almost. They had been picked for their small stature, soft features and their relatively high speaking voices yet he had never believed that they could acquire such convincing femininity in so short a time. ‘Take a seat please’
‘It’s a bit sticky Sir’ Amanda said closing the door behind her and picking her way though the mass of boxes in the adjutant’s office. Mac noticed that she straightened her skirt as she sat, pulling the hem over her knees. How had she been taught such innate, almost automatic, behaviour? Why had the French created an organisation to do this? That he had been lucky enough to inherit it was a blessing.
‘Thing is Sir’ Amanda was saying ‘it’s one of the other pilots…’ She paused briefly pursing her lips ‘…Verity Bliss, we knew one another before the war, her brother was in my squadron’. Amanda looked up from the square of desktop she had been focussing on ‘you promised that no one would ever know that we had done this. She waved her hand across her chest to indicate the WAAF uniform. Mac gave her an encouraging smile.
‘I don’t think you need worry about being recognised’ he said ‘you’ve been here almost a week and I haven’t heard anything. Have you?’ she shook her head. ‘In fact’ Mac continued ‘your own mother would probably pass you in the street without saying a word — I wish I were in a similar position’. That at least made her laugh a little although she still would not meet his eye, instead she seemed to be looking at the chessboard he had left on top of a filing cabinet. On a hunch Mac asked ‘do you play?’
He played chess no better than any other Cambridge mathematics professor, and while Mac was winning, he was winning narrowly. ‘You’ve been playing how long?’ he asked her over the board.
‘A couple of months’ she replied tearing her concentration away from the board briefly ‘there was a chaplain at the hospital, he loaned me a few books’
‘Ah that explains it…’ he said. Two months? Two months? No one gets this good in two months. ‘…and the Bible study too?’
‘I was in traction for six weeks’ she blushed ‘gives you a lot of time to think, especially when the beds are filling up around you… emptying too’ her voice became wistful for a moment, then rallied ‘and there’s bugger all else to read here either’. She smiled triumphantly as she put down the bishop ‘I think I’ve moved in mysterious ways’.
‘Don’t clear the pieces I want to see what you’ve done’ as he spoke Mac was reaching for a book on a shelf behind his desk. ‘How’s your French’ he asked passing her a well thumbed copy of ‘Therese Raquin’.
‘Surprisingly undreadful - do you think I have a guilty conscience?’ she laughed taking the book from him.
‘I haven’t unpacked my books yet, I was reading this on the train’ he said by way of explanation, adding quietly ‘and yes I think you have a conscience but nothing to feel guilty about’.
Amanda let that go she knew he was wrong on that subject. ‘You never really explained what we’re doing here. It’s obviously some sort of ruse de guerre but why do you need Pat, Jess and I?’
Mac made a steeple of his fingers pressing them to his face wondering how much he should say. He had asked a lot of them and they had not let him down, they were owed an explanation.
‘We had an idea’ he started ‘to fool Jerry about how many pilots we have. A fighting women’s squadron would really give him pause for thought don’ you think?’
‘Well yes’ Amanda said ‘but you could have done that with women radio operators on the ground’
‘Yes we could’ Mac said ‘but it wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny... we need women pilots up into the skies if there was any chance of combat, and we can't rule that out even in a quiet sector like this could we?’ He had placed his hands on the desktop as if drawing a line under the conversation. Amanda however thought she could push him further.
‘Of course not but why dress us up? We’re in the back of beyond here...’ her words trailed off in realisation ‘...you think they’re going to come looking for us on the ground as well’.
‘Clever girl’ Mac laughed ‘and when they do we’ll catch them!’
‘You’re not really in the RAF are you?’ Amanda asked but his attention had already switched back to the chessboard.
Pat returned the handkerchief back he had given her to blow her nose, straightened her uniform and turned to leave. It was only then she realised they were still holding each other’s hand. ‘Thank you Pat’ he said.
It had been a strange experience for both of them and necessary. Their kiss had been brief, very intense but entirely chaste. Neither could express why it happened their every instinct was to bottle up fear and emotion, to carry it like men. Yet Pat’s adopted role allowed them to share feelings they could never have done otherwise, a kiss was merely a way of sealing the connection, his arm around her shoulder a shared comfort. The hour they spent quietly talking should by their old code have been embarrassing, and yet...
‘Could you pop in to see Mac on the way out’ Mike said as she reluctantly let go of his hand to leave ‘ask him to see me first thing in the morning’.
Finding Amanda there had been a surprise, the chess board between them drinking scotch and smoking. Pat was tempted to accept their invitation to join them and would have had not the clock been striking midnight.
‘I’d better shoot off too’ said Amanda ‘tongues will wag if we both straggle back from the men’s billet alone at this hour’.
‘Have you been crying’ she asked Pat as they walked back to the Hall arm in arm.
‘A little’ Pat admitted ‘The old man gave me a bit of an ear bashing. Told me to buck up and look after you and Jess’. She gave Amanda a wan smile and told her the CO’s concerns over them not mixing with the women pilots.
‘That’s what I was having a chat with Mac about’ she said as they climbed the Hall’s main staircase. The three of them had for modesty’s sake the top floor to themselves, and to some consternation, single rooms.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Amanda asked as they stopped at her door.
Pat demurred. It’s off to bed for me’ she said ‘I’ll just check on Missy first’ nodding at Jessica’s door.
The door was ajar giving Pat a glimpse of Jess sat in front of a shaving mirror painting here face, a cigarette burning to stub on the table top. Their young comrade was wearing a beautiful lace trimmed red silk camisole, french knickers set, her legs folded to one side and encased in black silk stockings. Pat watched her for several minutes as she carefully applied kohl to her eyelids, delicately tracing their outline with the pencil oblivious to anything else. Pat pulled herself away from the doorway resolving to have words with Missy in the morning.
Amanda did her best to take Pat’s words (and Mac’s reassurance) to heart making an effort to mix more freely with the women pilots. Still Amanda had managed so far to always keep Verity Bliss at a distance fearful that she might make the connection between with the young pilot in her late brother’s squadron. Nothing however lasts forever and before very long Amanda found herself cornered with no way to leave the mess without attracting attention as Verity bore down on her.
‘Amanda’ she said in the breathy voice Anthony had once found so entrancing ‘can we talk… somewhere quiet?’ Amanda nodded and fearing the worst allowed herself to be guided outside.
The air was chill; thankfully as it explained away her shivering, but she was sure her galloping heartbeat could be heard from yards away. Verity led her into an alcove in the outer wall then squeezing in beside her.
Verity had been considered a society beauty much admirered until she had inexplicably dropped off the social calendar. Taller than most women she had a certain grace that allowed her to carry off the extra height with an air of not really caring, an impression heightened by wearing minimal make up. With bright blond hair however, a complexion to match and piercing blue eyes she hardly needed any.
‘I need your help’ Verity whispered. Amanda held her breath. ‘You’re quite close to Mac aren’t you?’ Verity continued.
Amanda nodded wondering where this was leading ‘We play chess’ she said. Verity paused as if taking a deep breath.
‘It’s like this’ she said ‘before the war…’ Amanda’s heart sank ‘…I was mixed up in this crowd; sort of on the edges really… we went to Germany…’ In short bursts Verity told her how she had rubbed shoulders with some of the Nazi elite, not the most famous figures but leading Party members nonetheless. By the time Verity had finished the words were almost spilling out. Her cheeks flushed and her voice even more breathy than Amanda remembered.
Amanda considered what to say while Verity looked at her with an almost pleading expression, wide eyed, nervous. ‘I’m sure if Mac was worried he’d have said something already’ she said slowly ‘he’s pretty switched on so he probably knows everything. I can have a word if you like?’
‘Oh thank you’ Verity said catching her in a hug, their cheeks brushing very briefly together. Verity pushed herself back while still holding Amanda’s shoulders. ‘Your skin is very smooth, no beard’ she said stepping back.
‘Electrolysis, not the best week of my life’ Amanda laughed. Verity gave her an appraising look.
‘Smashing legs too’ she said ‘doesn’t it bother you, dressing up like this?’
‘Not really’ Amanda said ‘just a change of uniform really, it’s hard to explain’
‘Say something to me in your man’s voice’
‘I can’t’ Amanda said, Verity was the last person she wanted to hear that ‘it’s part of the training we have to keep… ummm… in character or… well it’s like breaking the spell. Does that sound mad?’
‘A little’ Verity said ‘but you’re a man it must feel strange to give that up…’ she left off quietly fearing that she had gone too far.
‘Oh I gave that up when I decided to ride a motorcycle in the mess’ Amanda said.
Faith, Hope and Charity
Deirdre Melling first called them Faith, Hope and Charity. Deirdre had a talent for giving nicknames that stuck, had done since school, unsurprisingly maybe for someone with a given name so rich in comedy potential. It was not a trait that endeared her to others but then she had always been, as she termed it, self reliant. A quality that had carried her on solo flights to many far flung outposts of empire; not that were very many left unreached and Deirdre’s exploits in foreign parts had brought her little of the fame that attached itself to other aviatrixes. Deirdre had a choice nickname for Amy Johnson.
Pat Watson’s habit of prefixing requests with ‘I hope this isn’t an imposition…’ or ‘I had hoped we would…’ offered Deirdre easy meat, and she was not alone in spotting Amanda’s Bible reading. With Faith and Hope taken care of Charity fell to Jess; of course the name could be construed a dig at Jess’s working class origins. Though she might deny that this was her intention Deirdre little minded offending someone younger and prettier than her. Of course she had enough taste not to use the name directly
Jess sloped away from the mess before Pat found her something to do (there was always something to do even though the squadron had no serviceable aeroplanes yet). She had discovered a spot at the edge of the dispersal area where she could pass time undisturbed few of her fellows caring to brave the wintery weather. She was not by nature a solitary person it was just that everyone else was older and a bit posh. Even when someone complimented her she felt as though she was being addressed along the length of their noses. So Jess crept off and spent a few hours smoking and wondering what it all meant.
It was less than a year since that John Crabtree had begun his apprenticeship as a draughtsman in the same engineering firm where his father was a foreman. He had earned a scholarship for the local art school and his father’s staunch opposition to his youngest son’s airy ambitions. Draughtsman was a proper job; John would never want for work with a trade, it had been a very lean decade after all. He hated drawing straight lines; he hated his pens, the rules, the compasses and most of all the unending geometry. When he was accepted for aircrew training he had slipped away from the family home one morning leaving a note for his mother. He had not been back since.
In pilot training for the first time in John’s life he found himself rubbing shoulders with young men from all parts of the country, and all social classes. It could have been overwhelming if he had not displayed such natural flying ability; he soloed before any of his classmates, and barely paused until he had been posted to an operational training unit. By that time there was a desperate demand for pilots yet John, who had stepped in to tutor some of the others, had not been posted to an active squadron. As the weeks passed it became apparent that the commanding officer was reluctant to let a good instructor go, so when the call came for pilots no more than five feet five inches tall John jumped at the chance to volunteer.
Not so very long later Jess found herself leaning against a sandbag wall a chill November wind whipping the greatcoat around her knees and whistling up her skirt. The intervening weeks had been very strange, in many ways more challenging than learning to fly a fighter; there had been so much to learn and yet she had taken to the new role as easily she had the Tiger Moth’s controls. It was as frightening as taking off for the first time and as liberating. Jess worried that she should have enjoyed it less perhaps resisted more; the closest she now came to rebellion was wearing sheer black stockings in place of regulation grey. Even that was a victory for her feminisation.
‘Ooh sorry miss… I mean ma’am’ one of the ground crew had strolled around the corner fumbling to remove a cigarette packet from her overall pocket ‘I’ll just leave you to it’
‘Oh don’t mind me’ Jess said told the girl ‘here have one mine’
‘Ooh Gold Leaf don’t mind if I do’ she said taking a cigarette from the offered packet while brushing away a few unruly strands of bright red hair that had escaped the scarf knotted around her head ‘thanks miss… I mean ma’am’
‘My name’s Jess I don’t really feel like a ma’am’ she smiled.
‘Sally… that’s Aircraftswoman Potter… do you have light I can’t find me matches’. Her face crinkled, freckles dancing under the grease smudges ‘you’re new here aren’t you mi… Jess?’
‘Got here two days ago, it’s all a bit strange. For me anyway’ Jess laughed.
‘Oh you’re one of the…’ Sally left the sentence hanging. The new pilots had been the source of much speculation among the other ranks who had only had a fleeting glance. Seeing Jess close up was a shock was she really? No it had to be a joke, a misunderstanding, but Sally knew all the women pilots by sight so Jess had to be… The silence hung between them for an age before Sally added ‘you’re very pretty’.
Jess blushed and looked away, compliments still embarrassed her. It was such a girlish gesture. Sally was bewitched by the exquisite little creature looking up shyly through her long lashes. Lord knows there had been enough shower room lurkers since she had joined the Air Force to satisfy any curiosity, had she felt any, about sex with another woman but Jess was stirring up all sorts of emotions. Sally could be quite brazen when she wanted but even then it was always a game for the man; here was a man — unbelievably — who had thrown away all the rules. It was dizzying.
What to say? Sally felt like a rare butterfly had landed in the palm of her hand and she was frozen fearing that it would fly away. Something was bound to slip out it always did.
‘Do you wear women’s clothes underneath too?’
Jess did not disappear into the gloom; she nodded earnestly adding ‘Oh yes, we have to wear terrible corsets but we can wear some prettier underthings as well’ and blushed. While they were both silently kicking themselves Sally took the initiative.
‘Will you show me?’ For Sally the years were peeling away, back to the day in infants’ school when Simon Arbuthnot — her first betrayer — had tricked her into showing her knickers. Now she was the one in trousers, long trousers too, watching wide eyed as Jess lifted the hem of her skirt revealing a band of deep claret lace just touching her stocking tops. ‘Oh they’re beautiful’ she said fighting the urge to reach out and touch ‘where did you get them? They must have cost a fortune in coupons’
‘They were a present’ Jess said lifting the hem a fraction higher ‘from Doctor Higgins she taught us how to speak like girls’
‘She must have liked you then’
‘She kissed me once or twice’ Jess said softly (‘Hussy!’ thought Sally) ‘but she used to smack the back of my legs with a ruler when I made a mistake’ Sally was suddenly intrigued by the idea of smacking the back of those legs, not a thought like any she had entertained before, and only just caught the flicker of something in Jess’s smile.
‘You liked that didn’t you?’ Sally squealed.
Jess bit her bottom lip as if she was fighting to keep the answer in. Right at the moment when it seemed that the struggle was almost over the air was torn by the snarl of an aero engine, a big one and by the sound in trouble.
‘That’s the sort of thing that starts people looking for me’ Sally said ‘I’d better go’. It was a bit too early for a kiss but she could not resist landing a smack on Jess’s bottom before she turned away and ran.
Teddy Mallory had been chased back across the Channel by two yellow nosed Messerschmitts losing his wingman, his squadron and his bearings in the process. He brought his Spitfire out of cloud above the coast with no clear landmark in sight before Lacksford. Had he really drifted this far north? The motor began coughing and a quick check of the fuel gauges showed why. Scanning the fields for a safe place to put down he found an airfield where there should have been none; it was far too close to the town to be Monksclere. Still there was nothing for it Teddy tipped the wing and began his descent.
Mac watched the pilot emerge from the cockpit and counted his blessings. He strode over to welcome the newcomer. Teddy was removing his flying helmet when he saw a figure striding up with his hand extended.
‘Welcome to Helton’ Mac boomed ‘looks like you’ve been in a spot of bother there’.
‘Oh nothing too serious Sir’ Teddy said running his hand through his hair and trying to shake the engine noise out of his ears ‘what station is this?’.
‘Helton old chap’ Mac said with a show of affability ‘only been here a few weeks… how’s that crate of yours? Got a few bullet strikes I see’
‘Just needs a bit of juice really Sir. Is there a telephone on the field?’ there was something strange about Helton he simply could not put his finger on it.
‘Afraid not still waiting for a few things to arrive… you’ll have to come up to the Hall’ Mac said directing the young man with an a hand in the small of his back ‘You’re just in time for lunch as it happens… wait a sec while I get some of our girls to give your machine the once over’. Girls of course! Teddy looked around and there was not another man in sight. With a silent ‘what ho!’ Teddy followed Mac off the field.
‘What the devil are you playing at Mac’ Mike hissed at Mac ‘what happened to secrecy?’
‘Just this once Mike I promise’ he said softly. Mac was looking very pleased with himself which irritated the squadron-leader even more ‘within a week every base in England will be talking about Mike Trent’s harem of WAAF pilots, by Sunday they’ll all be beauty contest winners!’
‘And what good will that be?’ Mike was desperately fighting the urge to punch Mac on the nose.
‘A couple of our lads are captured every week flying over France. ‘ Mac explained ‘they’ll all stick to name, rank and serial number but the rumours will be in the POW camps in no time at all…’ he let his voice trail off and waited for the CO to catch up.
‘You’re a devious cove Mac remind me never…’ he never finished the sentence. Jess had rushed through the entrance pursued by girlish merriment.
‘Pilot-officer Crabtree stop right there’ Pat barked catching hold of Jess’s coat and pulling it around to display Sally’s black handprint. ‘We’ll talk about this later mark my words’ she said before stalking off.
Amanda who had been walking a step or two behind slipped her arm in Jess’s. ‘Don’t mind Auntie Hope’ she said with a conspiratorial wink ‘she has extra bones in her corset. I had a Bentley that used to throw oil everywhere; I’ll show how to get the stain out tonight’
With no aircraft and only Pat’s efforts at keeping everyone busy meals were still largely formal at Helton even lunch. Teddy Mallory had a vaguely surreal feeling watching the ladies sit down at the long table, place settings neatly arranged on a pristine white tablecloth. He had enough presence of mind however to ignore the seat Mac was offering and to dive in beside a rather hot little blond number. Wasting no time he introduced himself to the table and to the blond in particular. To his delight Jess blushed like a schoolgirl.
‘What did you do before the war then?’ he asked ‘or were you still in school?’ The image of Jess running around in a gymslip was almost painful.
‘Oh no’ she said looking down at her plate ‘I was a dra… that is I was an artist’. It was not really a lie she had spent her days drawing. Mike jumped up, snatched a poster from the wall (to Pat’s obvious consternation) and laid it face down on the table between them. ‘Draw me something’ he said fishing a pencil out of his tunic pocket ‘as a keepsake’.
Jess put the end of the pencil between her lips hurriedly removing it when she realised it was already well chewed. She thought for a moment and began sketching conscious that everyone was watching her. ‘Finished’ she said as if it were a test pushing the drawing back to Teddy.
‘Oh that’s marvellous’ he laughed and held up the sketch for everyone to see. Jess had drawn a caricature of Teddy in his flying kit struggling under the weight of an oversize petrol can. ‘What a clever girl you are!’ he added patting her knee under the table.
Jess barely had time to shovel a few mouthfuls of food down as pieces of paper appeared from all angles with demands to ‘draw me!’ Two in particular were immense hit — one of Pat looking very cross tapping an immense pocket watch that hung from her neck like Jacob Marley’s chains, and a very accurate portrait of Deidre wielding an equally huge collection tin with ‘for charity’ written’ on it. Pat allowed herself to smile while looking daggers at Jess, but Deidre seemed genuinely pleased laughing heartily along with everyone else.
‘I have to be quick’ Jess told Sally ‘we have to be outside the Hall at eleven hundred hours… orders’. It was sunnier than the day before but the wind was just as bitter sinking through the still damp patch on her top coat where she had scrubbed off Sally’s handprint.
‘So what did you do then?’ Sally asked as Jess described Teddy’s roving hand running up and down her thigh ‘Did you biff him?’
‘Not all’ Jess’s eyes sought out and locked on to Sally’s ‘I just pretended it was your hand’. Jess blushed bright crimson, tipping her head to one side and smiling. It was too much for Sally to resist she snaked her arms around Jess’s waist. ‘Ooh stop! You’ll get me into trouble again’ Jess squealed pushing her back.
Sally put her hands on the sandbags to either side of Jess and very gently pushed her back against the wall. There was only a slight protest. ‘What’s the matter’ she whispered in Jess’s ear.
‘I’ve never kissed a girl before’ Jess murmured very aware of Sally’s breath on her flushed face ‘never properly anyway’
‘Me neither’ said Sally pressing her lips to Jess’s.
If anyone guessed why Jess arrived last, blushing and flustered they said nothing. All eyes were on the skies where a shoal of tiny dots were approaching, the noise of their engines growing louder by the second.
‘Are those Hurricanes?’ someone asked above the din.
‘No’ Pat answered ‘the radiator is too deep…could be Moranes I suppose’
‘They’re Masters’ Jess cried as the first jet black monoplane came in to land ‘I did my advanced training in them’ then sensing that everyone else seemed disappointed by the answer added ‘they’re not as fast as Hurricanes but you can loop them and all sorts… not that I ever did though’
Those final few words drew a laugh from everyone, they may not have known the little blond very long but no one could imagine her not charging at any gate, no matter how high or forbidden.
A Quiet Night In
I wish Pat would ease up on Jess’ Amanda said to Verity ‘she’s a good kid, just a bit flighty that’s all’. The two of them were sitting apart from the main group in the mess, close enough to benefit from the fire but where there conversation could not be heard.
‘Why?’ Verity asked ‘has Jess been giving the glad eye to the CO?’ Amanda made a great show of looking appalled. ‘That’s just silly’ Amanda said ‘you could just as well say the same of Mac and I’.
‘There’s been talk’ Verity added a smile playing over her lips. Amanda’s laugh was like the first few raindrops of a shower that fails to fall. ‘Poor Mac’ she said ‘He’ll be devastated’. Since the night when Verity had taken Amanda into her confidence the two had become very good friends; much to Mac’s annoyance as he missed their nightly chess games.
‘Anyway’ Amanda continued ‘I believe our Jess has found herself a friend among the other ranks, that’ll always annoy a regular like Pat. I’m just glad I’m not pretty enough to be roped into a fantasy ménage a trois’.
‘You are you know’ Verity took her friend’s chin in hand turning her face this way and that ‘perhaps we should have a look at your make up’.
If keeping a grounded 641 occupied had been difficult for Pat keeping them out of mischief now they had aeroplanes was nigh on impossible. 641 was to be nightfighter squadron with Pat, Amanda and Jess doing all the night flying in Mac’s plan. Pat was quick to object, not only would that put an incredible strain on the three of them it would alienate the women pilots. Instead she proposed only two of them would fly each night joined by two of the other pilots in rota. Mac was unconvinced but Mike’s intercession brought the adjutant around.
The squadron had received twelve Miles Master aeroplanes; two were the standard two seat advanced trainer model, the others had been converted to single seat emergency fighters during the summer when it was feared Hurricane production might fail to keep up with Fighter Command’s needs. Fortunately they were not needed and had been standing around or used for communications work since. Although by no means a first line fighter (approximately the same size as a Hurricane but with a less powerful engine) the single seat Master was nimble enough to catch the Luftwaffe’s bombers and its six machineguns capable of giving a good account of themselves.
Pat’s first task had been to assess the women pilots. All had held civilian licences before the war and while the ministry thought them only fit to ferry Tiger Moths in daylight many had hundreds of hours’ flying time. Most had some night flying experience, some more than Pat, and with one or two exceptions all had flown advanced civilian types. Pat spent hours poring over their log books, while Amanda and Jess had flown with all of them in the two seat Masters. It was not her intent to turn the women into combat pilots but Pat would not send them into the night skies unprepared. She had seen the results of that far too often not to learn the lesson.
Mike had been a great help. He had not been cleared for flying by the MO yet but Pat had grown to rely on his help with the more intransigent pilots as well as with Mac. The two of them had taken to meeting in his study after dinner each evening to talk through the day’s events and plans for the next. At first they were more than a little reserved after baring so much of their souls to each other. The triumphs and tribulations of 641 however had brought them closer together and both looked forward to ‘vespers’ as Mike called their meetings.
Mike had dragged into his study a ratty old leather chesterfield that the Hall’s owners had left behind which the efforts of a couple of WAAF orderlies had cleaned to the point of respectability. It was not all that comfortable but easy enough on the rear for him and Pat to spend an hour or so over a glass of gin. Poor Pat was dwarfed by its huge wing back and arms, especially at first when she had made a point of sitting as far from him as the chair allowed.
Pat laid her head on Mike’s chest wondering at how quickly they had slipped into a couple’s roles and, with his arm around her shoulder, feeling safe in a way she had forgotten. He gave her so much she was unsure what she could offer in return, save warmth and something for him to hold onto. As he laid a reassuring hand on her knee she buried herself even closer in his side until she could hear his heart beating. Even in war it was possible to find peace, maybe contentment too Pat told herself her eyelids drooping.
‘Hey wake up sleepy head!’ Mike gave her a little shake. Pat pushed herself against him unwilling to open her eyes. The movement nudged Mike’s hand from her knee, his fingers slipping under her skirt’s hem and coming to rest a few inches higher up her thigh. ‘Just a few minutes more’ she said softly.
Watching Pat’s neat little bottom swish its way through the door Mike kicked himself for waking her. The image of him carrying her still sleeping to his bed was hard to suppress as was the memory of how his hand felt on her thigh — not the momentary accident when she woke but earlier when it had crept tentatively to her stocking top and the soft, warm flesh an inch or so further. Why, when he was surrounded by a hundred women, did he have to fall for one who was a man?
Sally Potter could not wait for lights out when the hut’s other inhabitants would hopefully shut up and let her think of Jess in peace. There was a lot to think about. Worryingly he had never fallen for anyone as swiftly or as deeply as she had for Jess. The pilot was so pretty (‘boys aren’t supposed to be pretty!’) Sally never knew whether to kiss her or to tickle her into giggles. Kissing usually won out. Jess even kissed like a girl, her lips parting slightly for Sally’s, so soft, often trembling. Her waist was so tiny Sally almost feared to hold Jess in case she snapped in her big oily mechanic’s hands but when she was held Jess gave everything of herself. The only fly in the ointment was the hard rubber false breasts sewn into the corset she wore, what Sally would not give to feel their bodies together without them in between. What if Jess had real breasts but was still a boy? Smiling, Sally drifted off to sleep.
‘Here it is’ Amanda said pulling the case from under her bed ‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to be up her at all you know’
‘Nonsense’ Verity replied ‘Kate Walton’s in and out of Pat’s room all hours… oh my!’ The last as Amanda opened the suitcase for her to see.
‘Kate helps out Pat a lot you’re not telling me there are rumours about her and Pat to?’
‘Rumours yes’ Verity said rummaging around in its contents ‘but not like that Kate’s inclinations are supposed to lay elsewhere… lipstick, perfume, proper stockings… where did you get all this?’
‘They gave us the lot when we finished training… what were you saying about Kate?’
‘Just rumours’ she picked out a lipstick ‘I don’t know her all that well. She wasn’t with us at Upavon… is this my colour?’ Amanda frowned women could be infuriating. ‘She and her twin brother raced aeroplanes before the war - their father’s something in the city — and somehow she managed to get past the medical board (no really is this my colour?) disguised as her brother, for the Air Transport Auxiliary. She ferried Hurricanes for six weeks before anyone realised that Toby Walton was also flying Spitfires in 12 group… bit of a stink about it’
‘Hmm wonder where Mac found her’ Amanda said reminding herself to ask him over their next chess game ‘it looks lovely; you can have it… have it all if you like’
‘Oh no’ Verity said pocketing the lipstick ‘these are yours… I bet your legs look wonderful in these’. She held up a pair of black stockings.
Over the next thirty minutes Amanda was cajoled into the stockings, and plied with scent and cosmetics — all in blissful ignorance as Verity kept her away from the mirror until she had finished. When she was allowed to look the results were striking and she couldn’t resist a little preening. She might even give Jess a run for her money.
‘Let’s go back downstairs’ Verity said taking Amanda’s hand.
‘Your room?’
‘No silly the mess I want to show off my protégé’ she laughed dragging Amanda to the door
Jess unfolded the letter and read it through again. Mac had raised an eyebrow when he had handed out the mail as the return address was plain to see on the envelope. She was just as surprised that Dr Higgins had written to her as well.
It was a short missive an enquiry after Jess’s health and little more. Or so it would seem to the casual reader. At the very end Honoria had added ‘I will of course be very disappointed were I to hear that you have not been keeping up the vowel exercises I set you. I might have to suggest to your commanding officer that I be allowed to visit and a cure be effected.’
Jess shuddered at the memory of the Doctor’s cures they usually resulted in red stripes on Jessica’s thighs, and sometimes her bottom. Without knowing exactly why she read that last part again remembering how her tutor had made her bend over the desk with the hem of her skirt lifted. Jess trembled at the memory just as she did when Sally kissed her. No one else enjoyed being spanked did they?
Sally had caught her daydreaming that morning in their usual place and had crept up close without Jess realising. She had then proceeded to tickle Jess until tears streaked her cheeks, and had laughed when Jess admonished her for ruining her make up. Then they had kissed Sally’s hands roving as though searching for a new place to tickle. Jess’s bottom was not ticklish nor were her stocking tops though she had to protest when the hands wandered further still up her skirt. All the way up her skirt in fact.
Jess’s hands were just about to do some wandering of their own when there was a knock on the door. She took a moment to collect herself, stuffed the letter under the mattress and said ‘come in’.
‘Wow! You’re dolled up tonight, been out?’ Pat had caught up with Amanda as they both climbed the final flight of stairs to their rooms.
‘Verity wanted to play dress up’ Amanda said with a wry grin ‘how was vespers?’
‘Oh the usual’ Pat relied hoping that her voice did not betray how unusual she felt. At the top of the stair she gave Amanda’s arm a pat ‘See you in the morning I’ve just got to have a word with Missy before I turn in’.
Amanda checked Pat, taking her arm lightly. ‘Go easy on her Pat’ she said ‘she’s young you know… this…’ she indicated with a gesture their appearance ‘…it’s a lot to take’. Pat nodded before turning away.
Unseen on the previous landing Kate pulled her dressing gown tight about her wondering what Pat had to see Jess about. Nothing to be a jealous about she told herself, probably nothing at all. Jess was pretty but she was not Pat’s type at all. She stood a moment more and trudged back to her room.
‘Pilot-officer Crabtree if you’re going to flaunt uniform regulations at least make sure your seams are straight!’ Oh no Jess groaned not again.
‘Ha!’ Pat laughed ‘Made you look’. She sat down on the bed beside Jess straightening her skirt (over her own black stockings Jess noted). Pat laid her hand on Jess’s shoulder. ‘I’m not here to give you a roasting’ she smiled weakly ‘You’re a good pilot Jess, better than most, and you’ll make a good officer when you get to your squadron too. I don’t want you to spoil your future by doing anything unfortunate now’ she gave Jess’s arm a gentle squeeze ‘aircraftswoman Potter’s a fine girl just remember that there are rules about us mixing with the other ranks… listen to your Auntie Hope and be discreet’. She smiled and kissed Jess on the forehead as she stood up.
‘Yes Auntie’ Jess giggled ‘Goodnight’.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ thought Pat as she left the room ‘first I’m Mike’s little woman, now I’m Jess’s auntie’ she shook her head and headed for her own room.
Jess’s eyes followed her out of the room. ‘Just who’s been making you wiggle?’ she thought.
She swoops to conquer
Mac loosened the flap on the Webley’s holster drew the pistol far enough to feel its weight and was struck by a peculiar sense of déjá vu. Always a solitary child Mac had spent many hours tracking redskins through the woodland around his home. A senior police officer’s son it had never occurred to him that he could as well be tracking cowboys; when he eventually rebelled it was of a far more subversive nature. While his brothers took up commissions in the Inniskillings or sailed away to take up the white man’s burden Mac set his sights on an academic life. To his father’s shame he had become a mathematician.
As the last son to join the colours, if belatedly, his father had entrusted him with the service revolver he had used in Flanders (and, it was rumoured, back home in Ireland too). ‘That’s a .455 boy’ he had said ‘a proper man stopper though I doubt you’ll ever get the chance to use it in what you’re doing’. Mac had taken great delight in proving his father wrong on many occasions but he hoped this would not be another. His greatest fear was that he would shoot from the hip, fanning the hammer like Tom Mix. He glanced across at the expressionless Sergeant Morton cradling a much prized and much polished Thompson. Was he harbouring similar fears about Jimmy Cagney?
Mac had brought the sergeant alone through the woods leaving the rest of the platoon with its boorish subaltern to guard their quarry’s bicycle ‘in case he doubles back’. The two men were moving as silently as they could through the dead, winter undergrowth, every step it seemed causing a twig to crack underfoot. ‘We’re walking bloody sotto voce’ Mac thought freeing the Webley from its holster. In the end it was not a twig that betrayed them but a jay screeching overhead as they rounded a large oak.
‘Halt or I will fire’ Mac shouted in an Ulster accent he had not heard himself use since prep school. ‘Oh bugger’ he thought and squeezed off a round at the retreating figure.
‘Good shot Sir’ said Sergeant Morton as the fugitive folded over, a red stain spreading between his shoulder blades ‘twenty yards and him running. Damn good shot!’
‘Not really sergeant’ Mac said rather dryly ‘I was aiming for his legs. Let’s have a look at what he left behind here’. A shabby mackintosh had been spread out on the ground a half eaten corned beef sandwich hurriedly dropped along with a camera and a pair of field glasses; both beautifully made, both German. Not too unusual equipment for a birdwatcher which is what he had claimed to be when stopped nearby two days earlier. His papers seemed to be in order but the constable, a keen amateur ornithologist himself, had grown suspicious. All local reports of this nature found their way to Mac and when the unattended bicycle had been spotted again that morning he had swung into action with an alacrity that would have stunned the elder MacDiarmid.
‘Let’s have a look at what he was watching’ Mac muttered lifting the glasses to his eyes ‘hmm not so inept after all’. From his vantage point he had an unobstructed view of Helton, the field, the Hall, even the window of Mac’s office in the lodge. Fascinating as this was two figures tugged at his attention near the field’s edge, hidden from everyone else’s sight behind a sandbagged wall.
‘What? Oh yes’ Mac answered the sergeant’s inquiry, bundling the dead man’s gear inside his overcoat ‘bring up the rest of the men by all means. I’ll just hold onto these’. Once alone he turned the field glasses again to the figures that had arrested his attention, but they too had left. Although no stickler for regulation by any means Mac was certain that Sally Potter could be court-martialled for what she was doing to young Jess Crabtree even if the latter seemed to be enjoying it.
Jessica gingerly pulled her skirt down from around her waist throwing reproachful glances at Sally who returned them with an impudent grin that clearly said that Jess had had exactly what she asked for. ‘How do I compare with your Doctor Higgins then?’ she teased.
‘Well she never once kissed it better afterwards’ Jess aid in a mildly hurt tone.
‘Your doctor might know all about talking proper but she obviously knows nothing about how to treat lovely bums’. Sally caught Jess around the waist pulling her closer ‘give us a kiss and get your fags out or I’ll give you a Chinese burn’. Jess barely had time for a squeal before Sally’s lips were pressed to hers.
‘You’re a strange one Jess’ thought Sally ‘but then so am I’. It was hard for her to remember if her girlfriend was a boy or her boyfriend was a girl; Jess was not however a lisping sissy like her cousin Albert mincing about in his mum’s frocks. Jess looked and acted more like a woman than Sally did, it was uncanny, and had prompted Sally’s investigative fumblings (those had finally convinced her that Jess was physically a boy). Then there was the spanking; Sally did not understand why Jess liked it so but loved the intimacy and trust it built between them. Not that she enjoyed hurting the little pilot though it was fun to see how far she could go.
‘Do you ever get homesick?’ Jess asked between puffs. The wind had driven them around the corner where their matches were not immediately snuffed out.
‘It’ll be strange being away over Christmas’ Sally replied ‘at least I won’t have mum tying ribbons in my hair and trying to get me into party frocks all the time’.
‘Mine did that too’ sighed Jess. Seeing Sally’s quizzical look she carried on ‘I have three older brothers and no sisters so I suppose she just wanted a daughter. I was always dressed as a girl before I started school, had my hair in ringlets too’.
‘I bet you loved that!’ Sally laughed. It was so easy to imagine Jess as a little girl.
‘Not really ‘Jess answered ‘my brothers made fun of me and Dad never liked it. I just wanted to be a boy like them…’ she lit another cigarette. ‘Some of the dresses were nice though’ she added wistfully.
Jess looked so sad that Sally felt she had to change the subject, ‘Are your brothers in the forces too?’
‘Shouldn’t expect so, they were all in reserved occupations when I left. Dad made sure of that’. It took a few seconds for Sally to understand all the implications of what Jess had said.
‘And you’ve not been back home since. Oh sweetie’ she hugged her friend tight to her ‘they should be so proud of you’.
‘Right chaps’ began Mike apparently oblivious to the fact that of the six people in the crewroom he alone looked remotely like a chap, a fellow or indeed a bloke. Even bundled up in their Irving suits the pilots managed to effect at least a hint of femininity with a brightly coloured scarf or more elaborate make up than usual (after all they were off out for the night). ‘We’ve been doing this for a few weeks now so you know the score. Get upstairs, beetle about for a bit and make a bit of noise’
‘But don’t get too chatty’ interjected Pat directing a stern look at Amanda and Verity.
‘…and although we haven’t been lucky enough to receive a visit yet remember our rules of engagement’ he continued.
‘Especially you Rodriguez’ put in Pat for Hannah Rodriguez’s benefit. Despite her surname Hannah was as English as any of those present it being acquired in Spain. Though women stunt flyers were fairly thin on the ground in thirties Britain she had been among the very best before leaving to join the fight against Franco. Her intention was to join the Republican Air Force to fly against the Nationalists, but she found that revolutionary egalitarianism did not extend into the skies. She had instead become part of a militia that was happy to welcome fighters whatever their gender. There she met a rather dashing comrade, married him and been promptly widowed. Back home eager to get back into the fray her ambition had been frustrated by official suspicion of her political leanings as well as male prejudice. Once back in a plane she had been among the most vocal about the women pilots being allowed to engage enemy aircraft too. This tended to show off her other Mediterranean acquisition, a temper that could only come from Iberia.
‘Was there anything else Pat?’ Mike threw her a sidelong glance. She was a good officer he though but did she really need to nag the other pilots?
‘Oh just that the met boys have cleared us but there could be ground fog rolling in later’ she said ‘so if the weather starts to get a little dicey get down as soon as you can’. She made a point of making eye contact with each of the four pilots.
‘That’s you all strapped in tight’ Sally said fussing over Jess in the cockpit. Somehow she had been assigned as Jess’s rigger a role that gave them an excuse to associate openly. Nothing had been said but Jess had her suspicions about who made it possible. She may have been a fusspot but good old Auntie Hope was a real brick. ‘Is anyone looking?’
Jess shook her head though her view largely consisted of Sally’s bust at that moment, not that she was complaining or had much chance as Sally landed a resounding kiss on her lips. ‘Good luck’ she said ‘I’ll give you the rest of it when you come back’.
‘Are you cold?’ Mike asked Pat handing her one of the cigarettes he had just lit. His arm was already about her shoulders as they walked back from the airfield.
‘F-f-f-freezing’ she said through a cloud of tobacco smoke and condensed breath. She took his question as an invitation to get closer so she wrapped her arm around his waist, pressing herself against his side.
‘You should have worn trousers’ Mike said looking down at her stockinged calves ‘you’ve lovely legs but it is the middle of winter’. He chucked her under the chin with his free hand,
‘Hoist upon my own petard’ she said trying to stop her teeth from chattering ‘I didn’t think it was worth changing into them when I’d have to put a skirt on when I got back to the mess’.
‘But you always come straight back to the lodge from the airfield’ he looked down at the small figure burrowing deeper under his arm.
‘Oh I didn’t think of that’ she lied
Jess had never been as uncomfortable in an aeroplane as she was that night, not even in the open cockpit of a Moth. Her bottom was still a rosy pink from Sally’s attentions that morning and no matter how she shifted her weight she always found a tender spot. It was during one particular manoeuvre she spotted the light dawdling below the starboard leading-edge. Nosing the Master over for a closer look she was lucky to catch a glimpse of its silhouette against a patch of moonlit river. ‘Dornier!’ she thought just as the radio crackled into life.
‘Hedgehog to Midnight you have a customer, bearing north-east, angels...’
‘I have a visual identification’ Jess broke in tipping the wing over to begin a diving intercept. Slow as the older German bomber was it could still outrun a Master with enough warning she told herself although the pilot seemed oblivious to any danger, flying a straight course with the navigation light pinpointing his position to anyone with a pair of eyes.
‘He must see me by now’ Jess whispered to herself as she jockeyed into position under the bomber’s port wing and repeated it over and over as the dark shape crawled across her gun sight. She was still saying it as she pressed the firing button and watched the first strikes hit the fuselage two hundred yards away.
Jess struggled with the controls as the Master buffeted by the force of the explosion yawed wildly pieces of the doomed Dornier striking it at random. Worse still was a sickly smell that had invaded the cockpit as she had flown through the ball of flame that marked its demise. It was perhaps a minute before she could announce her success to the world and only one word would do.
Any listener on the ground that night or in the air who thought that they had heard the full gamut of radio transmissions, from triumph to tragedy was struck by the novelty of a very feminine voice screaming ‘owzat!’ in a distinctly Yorkshire accent.
Everyone without exception had run down to the airfield as soon as the news got back to Helton and they were all peering through the growing fog hunting for the returning aeroplane. Three Masters were already being rolled into hangars when the first faint hum of a Kestrel engine announced Jess’s imminent arrival. Mike had ordered a flare path lit even though it was frowned upon, as Helton had no radio beacon for Jess to home in on and he like everyone else waited with his heart in his mouth (and an arm around Pat) willing the little pilot safely down.
Oblivious to their concern Jess brought her plane down neatly within the flare path, rolling to a sedate halt well inside the runway’s limits. Only when she began to haul the canopy back did she become aware of figures running towards her through the mist, so many people, more she thought than there were at the base. She shook her hair free from the flying helmet, climbed onto the combing and jumped down to meet them.
Sally caught Jess even before she hit the grass swinging her around like a dolly and yelling though Jess was unable to make out a word she was saying. When both of them were so dizzy they could barely stand Sally came to an abrupt halt, tipping Jess back and kissing her fiercely not caring a damn who saw them.
‘Pilot-officer Crabtree!’ Pat strode out of the mist. Jess and Sally both snapped to attention with a brisk salute. ‘Not now’ said Pat brushing past Sally ‘Pilot-officer Crabtree you are a ruddy angel’ and hugged Jess until she feared she might faint.
I've been working on this for about six weeks, and what started out as a long short story has turned into the first third of a novel. I wanted to write something that had the feel of a wartime propaganda film like 'The Way Ahead' or 'Millions Like Us' with a bit of 'Brief Encounter' thrown in. I was also aiming to contrast the 'modern' women pilots with the traditional roles the transformed pilots have been taught. Sorry if that seems a bit pretentious.
It's got away from me a bit and I think I'll go back to the beginning and edit it some before carrying on (I don't think I need Chapter One, and some of the research I've done on women ferry pilots contradicts some of the early statements, hence Kate's backstory). It's also become a lit more risque than I had originally intended... I may just need a week or so working on something else to clear my head a bit :)
Comments
Midnight Angels
Hey Ceri I found this one a little harder to get though for some reason. The style perhaps threw me a little I think. There was also some scene and flashback changes that I had to work pass. You just took off right into the story and I struggled with trying to figure out what was going on.
That said, I really enjoyed the characters and their descriptions. The detail about the airfield and aircraft I thought was rich. There was many women pilots on both sides that wanted to be able to fly combat missions. As you said many instead worked ferrying aircraft from the factories to the front-line users. I do have a question about the point of this was to confuse Axis as to how many pilots the Allies had available by suggesting they were using women pilots. However the Squadron had at first only one plane and later on only trainers. Doesn't matter how many pilots you have if you don't have any aircraft for them to fly. Am I mis-reading this?
Hugs!
grover
I make some of it up as I go
I make some of it up as I go along you know :)
I think you could go two ways on this (Mac's played his cards close to his chest so far) - it could either trick them into believing the RAF had fewer pilots than it did, or the enemy would know from pre-war records that there were hundreds of civilian female pilots who could be pressed into front line service. Also, the British spent a great deal of effort promoting the false notion that carrots gave you better night vision to hide the development of airborne radar (that people still believe this today shows it was a job well done), so they might also promote the idea that women have better night vision for the same reason.
It's a bit of a shoestring operation so I saw them starting small with a few clapped out Hurricanes. There weren't many planes going spare at the time - the idle Master fighter conversions is a historical fact so they would have been available, and they would fit into the official mindset that women couldn't fly high performance aircraft (in 1940 there were only six women ferry pilots who were only permitted to fly trainers in daylight fair weather). Although only four pilots ever take to the air at one time the strain of using the same four every night would be potentially catastrophic... also they're expecting spies, and aerial reconaissance and the Master looked a lot like a Hurricane. I really should explain this better in the story.
Comments on style are spot on as I started to modify it from chapter three with flashbacks taking the place of the exposition in chapter one. I may also have over reached myself trying to interweave the storylines.
Ceri, Your Spoiling Me
I certainly would never argue with you about your vision for this story but I loved it just as is, and my only complaint is that I ran out of words to read. I'm really looking forward to more of this one, your settings and writing style are a joy and now that you've spoiled me I just have one thing to say. More please :)
Kindest regards,
talonx
More...
Its a great story and I eagerly await more, however some of the formatting is a bit off. Mainly where the scene changes there is often little clue as to the fact and you have to go back and read some to work out who is where and why.
JC
The Legendary Lost Ninja
Ceri, I love what you've
Ceri, I love what you've written. It has very good characters, even better atmosphere, and is delightfully different. Also wonderfully confused feelings and a touch of the whimsy, the light touch perhaps emphasized by the contrast with the "stiff upper lip." This is very good, and I eagerly await more.
Rianna Regan
Press On Ahead!
It's an intriguing premise for a TG story with some excellent banter and action thrown in. I'm not sure I really understand the rationale for the premise, but that's a surprisingly minor point in this story.
The observations about the unmarked scene changes being a bit disruptive to the reader are quite valid. Dropping in some sort of line or horizontal rule
might fix that right up. The above was created with "hr" in those angle brackets that html uses for everything.
Being as you've already gone ahead and posted this, you might as well go write the rest of the story before you go back and try to polish up or rewrite the first part. I mean, you know, it's sort of too late now -- you've already shown us your knickers and smoothing your skirt won't erase the event.
All I really ask for in the first part that's not there now is a clearer explanation of why the charade, and maybe some scene change markers. First you tell us that it's some wondrous plan to deceive the Germans into thinking Britain can field tons of pilots, and then, later in the story, you show some of the actual women pilots being trained to fly combat. It begs the question of why they thought they needed to disguise male pilots as female ones.
Sound advice
I'm beginning to agree about pressing on with the story. The size of it has really daunted me over the last few weeks and I think I panicked a bit (I've given myself a few days off from 'Midnight Angels' to pick up a couple of shorter pieces) and I think it would be better forge ahead to the finish rather than get into a rewriting spiral.
I may have been trying too hard to be clever - there are wheels within wheels and the only one who has any idea what's going is Mac (there's a part of chapter two that doesn't get explained until the penultimate chapter for instance)... in chapter seven he reveals a bit more of his plans to Amanda and Verity, while there's a new character in chapter seven or eight (I can't figure out yet which order they should come)an old flame who coaxes a bit more from him...
I will track back today and put markers in between the scene changes (and write out a hundred times 'I am not Patrick O'Brian' :)
[edit]I've set dividers between the scenes and opened out the chapter headings which I hope will improve readbility. I've also tweaked a few lines to clear up some inconsistencies. I hope this isn't considered bad form.
Lots of good background here.
Particularly as you mention lots of aircraft types that many have forgotten like the Miles Masters which had totally slipped my memory. I've never seen one modelled whereas there's lots of Spits and (sadly) fewer Hurricanes and Blenheims.
The writing's good but I found the plot line very confusing at times. I strongly approve of your 'showing' not 'telling' style at the start but there were so many characters appearing in rapid succession (three of them with two names and genders :) ) that I got quite thrown.
I'm not too sure of the basic premise, either. All TG stories have to clear the hurdle of the reason for a gender switch. If it's TS, then it works easily, but undercover TG is harder to justify. In this case as everyone from the lowest of the low (AC2 Potter-Sally) seems to be aware that the three new pilots are not what they appear to be, how is the enemy to be fooled? Perhaps I'm being a bit thick and missing something.
I feel I'm being spoiled right now. Three of my passions are featured in three stories - bikes, motorbikes and aeroplanes. And each by writers who know their subject. My cup runneth over.
Thanks
Geoff
Midnight Angels
An excellent beginning! I like the humour, the interesting characters and the conflicts. There's lots of action, intrigue and romance. I'm rooting for Faith, Hope and Charity!
To continue the aeronautic theme ...
... it may be as well to recall that Faith, Hope and Charity were the names of the the 3 Gloster Gladiators that heroically defended Malta during the siege in 1940. I wonder if Ceri had them in mind when she chose the nicknames for her 3 protagonists.
Geoff
Indeed I did
I'm just waiting for someone to pick up the very specific film reference in chapter 7 (I'm easily amused) :)
Another cultural reference?
A voice and diction coach named Higgins? Is that a reference to Shaw’s Pigmalion?
Child of the 1960's
And I remember all too well how everybody and their dogs were constantly sucking on their noxious weeds. Grateful am I that I now live in a time and place where there are some sharp limits on what people can inflict on each other in that way. Other than nicotine sulfate making for a marvelous agricultural pesticide, I have no use for the Nightshade family outside of tomatoes, potatoes, eggplants, and the milder peppers. And, though it may be historically accurate, I have no desire to read detailed paragraphs of smoking behavior—my imagination is just too vivid, and it does not help to open all the windows. My loss I suppose, Roger Zelazny was a highly acclaimed SciFi author, but I cannot read him, either. Oh well, we all have our “stuff.”
Otherwise, I enjoyed what I was able to read of this story before it became too much and I had to stop.